


My Big Brothers

by Buckeye01



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Entry for Fête des Mousquetaires challenge by ArcAngel-liberty4all on FF, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:26:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckeye01/pseuds/Buckeye01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entry for Fête des Mousquetaires competition, "Brotherhood," by ArcAngel-liberty4all. One brother falls in an attack, leaving three to worry. Tables turn suddenly and the one now worries for the lives of the three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Big Brothers

MY BIG BROTHERS

“Are we almost there yet?” d’Artagnan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “I don’t think I can take one more hour sitting down… my legs are getting restless.” The Gascon stretched out both legs and shook them furiously before replacing his feet in the stirrups.

Porthos laughed, “wha’s the matter, pup, legs botherin’ ya again?”

“Not funny, Porthos,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “Maybe if you ever had restless legs you would be more sympathetic,” he paused. “Arggh, I can’t stand it!”

The Gascon stopped his horse beside the road and jumped from the saddle. He stomped heavily with every step, walking in circles around the group who were still mounted on their horses. The Musketeers each watched their younger brother clomp angrily about on the road as they tried to hide their amusement, yet were failing miserably.

“Do you think you have all the kinks worked out now so we can get going again, hmm?” Aramis quipped with a grin.

d’Artagnan shot the medic an aggravated scowl, his dark eyes flashed with frustration. “It’s _not_ funny,” he growled. With one last stomp, the Gascon mounted his horse and gently kicked it into motion, riding ahead of the group.

“Well, somebody’s grumpy,” Porthos snickered, stealing a sideways glance at Aramis, who still wore an amused grin.

“Why don’t you two leave d’Artagnan alone?” A disgruntled Athos advised. Suddenly, the older Musketeer sat upright in the saddle, “look sharp, gentlemen, we have company approaching.”

The group of riders thundered toward the Musketeers with their pistols already lowered and ready to fire.

“Spread out,” Athos yelled to his brothers as he drew his pistol. The Musketeers parted ways to flank the group of bandits, with Aramis going left and Porthos going right; while Athos and d’Artagnan remained in the center to fight the bandits head-on.

Athos saw the flash from the pistol as it fired and instinctively ducked; he flinched slightly as he heard the ball whiz over his head then burrow into a nearby tree. The older Musketeer fired his pistol in return and nodded with satisfaction as the man tumbled from his horse, clutching his hand to his chest.

Meanwhile, Porthos caught a bandit by surprise as he flung himself from his horse onto the man’s back, knocking them both to the ground. The men tumbled in a splay of limbs, but Porthos’s size and surprising agility was far superior to his opponent and he quickly overpowered and subdued the bandit.

The large Musketeer buried his main gauche deep in the neck of his opponent then removed the weapon and wiped the blood from the blade on the man’s shirt. Porthos ran to where Aramis was engaged in a desperate sword fight with a burly man who was giving the marksman a difficult time.

Aramis danced around his opponent with skill and finesse but the large man’s strength was dominating the duel. The marksman raised his sword with an opposition block, deflecting the striking blow from the bandit with a resounding clash of steel on steel. The dueling blades glimmered in the bright sunlight as the opponents parried and counter-parried in flashy showmanship.

Once again, the burly man attacked with a step forward on his right foot but Aramis easily cross parried with his sword and main gauche, blocking the man’s blade. With a swift motion of both arms, the marksman then swiveled on his heels and slashed his sword across the man’s upper arm as he rounded behind the burly man. The man stumbled slightly but quickly regained his footing as the duelists found themselves bound in a _Corps-a-Corps_ with swords and bodies locked together in a hopeless stalemate.

Porthos threw his dagger, hitting on-target square in the middle of the burly man’s back. Aramis unlocked from the man’s steely grip and pivoted again on his heels to thrust his sword deep into the chest of the swordsman. The marksman withdrew his sword then stepped aside as the man fell face down, dead before he hit the ground.

“Thanks, brother…” Aramis gasped as he leaned over at the waist to catch his breath. “I had it under control,” he panted, “but I appreciate your help anyway.”

“Whatever you say, ‘Mis,” Porthos huffed with a grin.

“Where’s d’Artagnan and Athos?” Aramis quickly changed the subject as he scanned the field for his friends.

The Musketeers found d’Artagnan battling two men attacking him from opposite sides; while nearby Athos was engaged in his own battle with a bandit. The older Musketeer soon dispatched his opponent then turned his attention to d’Artagnan who was still struggling with the two bandits.

With ease, d’Artagnan parried an attack from one bandit and then turned with purpose so the bandit was left exposed as an easy target. Athos fired his pistol, dropping the man in a heap as the lead ball lodged in his back. 

The remaining bandit brought his sword down swiftly against d’Artagnan but was blocked as the steel slid down the length of the Gascon’s blade. Catching the man off guard, the Gascon delivered a snap-kick to the chest and knocked the man clean off his feet.

d’Artagnan stepped forward to thrust his sword deep into the man’s chest as he lay on the ground, too stunned to move. The Gascon turned to kick away the bandit’s sword as the sound of a musket fired from somewhere behind the tree line.

Athos watched in shock as d’Artagnan wheeled around from impact and fell limply to the ground, landing next to the opponent’s sword. The mystery sharpshooter then jumped on his horse to escape, heading toward where Aramis and Porthos waited and readied their weapons. Aramis aimed his musket and fired as the bandit rode by, hitting the man in the head.

In horror, the Musketeers converged on their fallen brother fearing what they would find once they rolled the Gascon over to examine him. d’Artagnan’s face glistened scarlet as blood streamed from the left temple to just above his ear.

“We need to get him to a physician,” Aramis pressed his handkerchief against the bleeding wound. “Or at least let us get someplace where I can take a better look at this wound without the possibility of getting shot!”

“The village of Antony is just ahead,” Athos motioned north with his chin. “It shouldn’t be more than a ten minute ride.”

“I’ll take him with me on my horse,” Aramis said as he pressed the cloth harder on the heavily bleeding wound.

“Why don’ I carry him, then I’ll hand ‘im up to you once you’re on your horse,” Porthos suggested. He squatted to scoop the Gascon into his arms while the medic walked along beside the duo, keeping pressure on the wound.

Aramis mounted his horse then reached down to pull d’Artagnan from Porthos’s lifted arms, “alright, I have him.” The medic situated the wounded man in front of him, allowing the Gascon’s head to settle into the crook of his neck, as he continued to keep pressure on the wound.

“Let’s go,”Athos ordered once he saw the pair was ready. The Musketeers raced toward the village of Antony in search of a physician or an inn where Aramis could tend to the Gascon’s wounded head, praying it wasn’t already too late.

*****

The Musketeers arrived at _Le Petit Jardin_ in Antony where Athos entered to inquire about a physician as the others waited outside.

“I’m sorry, but the physician is out of town today and there is not a room available anywhere nearby due to the festival this weekend. However, our tools building in the back is dry and warm; we can at least give you shelter there,” offered the young lady behind the desk. “I can help with the patient, if you need me. I’ve assisted the doctor with many kinds of injuries, including head wounds.”

“Thank you, I’ll be right back,” Athos turned to retrieve his friends.

“Follow me to the back,” the nurse instructed as Porthos once again cradled the unconscious Gascon in his arms. She led the group to the large structure behind the inn where inside various farming tools hung from the ceiling or were neatly stacked against the walls. A farrier bench and table with scattered tools and shoes for horses sat in the corner of the room. “We can put him on the table there,” the nurse motioned with her head.

Athos cleared away the tools from the table so Porthos could lay the Gascon down and allow Aramis to begin examining the wound. “I need water, clean towels, and a bottle of brandy if you have it,” the medic ordered.

“I have the towels here,” she handed Porthos the stack of clean towels. “I will go fetch the water and the brandy.” 

Aramis cleaned away the smear of blood from the Gascon’s head, wincing at the exposed gash. “The wound doesn’t look too deep,” Aramis paused as he moved in closer to examine d’Artagnan’s head. “I can clearly see the path the ball traveled along his head, starting at the temple and moving along to just above his ear. “If he hadn’t turned to kick that sword away…” his voice trailed with unspoken fear of how this shooting could have been quite lethal.

The nurse returned carrying a pitcher of water and a bottle of red wine and a medical bag hanging from her arm. “I have suturing thread, needles, surgical tools, bandages, and some herbs and medicines—anything you need is yours for the taking.” 

“Thank you, Mademoiselle…?” Aramis raised his eyebrows and waited.

“Anne,” she smiled. “Can I help you with anything, Monsieur…?”

“Aramis,” the medic answered, switching back into medic-mode. “You can clean up the wound more and sanitize it with the brandy so I can begin stitching it closed.

“Yes, I can do that,” Anne cleaned the blood and dirt from the wound with a wet towel. She finished her ministrations with a liberal pour of wine over the wound, which she then mopped up with a towel. “He’s all ready for you.”

Aramis began stitching the wound closed, appreciating the help from the nurse who held the broken edges of the skin together as the medic sewed. “Thank you,” Aramis said without looking up from his work. He continued to work quietly, concentrating on doing his best stitch work for his young brother. 

Aramis nodded as he finally tied off the last stitch and cut off the extra thread. “There, now we just wait until d’Artagnan wakes up to see if there’s been any permanent damage or not,” he sighed.

“Well, I am really impressed,” Anne said as she examined the stitch work done by the medic. “I think your stitching looks better than what Doctor D’Arras would do—his stitching always looks rather crude.”

“Thank you, just don’t let the doctor hear you say that,” Aramis grinned. “I don’t wish to make enemies I have yet to meet,” he chuckled as he wrapped the bandage tightly around the Gascon’s head.

“How is he?” Porthos asked as he neared the table to check on his friend.

“Well, the gash wasn’t too deep but we won’t know if the impact caused a concussion until he wakes up,” Aramis stated with a frown.

“I’ll bring extra blankets and pillows down for you in case it gets cool tonight,” Anne kindly offered. “Mama made bœuf à la Bourguignonne, so I’ll bring you each a bowl with some fresh bread once it’s ready.” Anne went back to her work in the inn, leaving the men time alone with their friend.

“Damn,” the older Musketeer sighed as he sat heavily on a stool in front of the table. Worry was clearly etched on his face as he stared at d’Artagnan. “This was supposed to be just a routine mission…” his voice trailed. “Why? Dammit, why did this have to happen?”

“Who the hell were those buggers anyway?” Porthos growled. “Damn them for doin’ this to the pup.”

“I don’t know,” Aramis murmured in a steely voice, “but they got exactly what they deserved.”

“How long do you think he’ll be unconscious?” Athos asked Aramis without ever taking his eyes off the Gascon.

“There’s no way to know,” the medic answered honestly. “It could be for just a few hours to an entire day; I really can’t say with any kind of certainty.”

“We need to keep an eye on d’Artagnan,” Athos stood and began to pace restlessly by the table. “We’ll sleep in shifts; I’ll take the first watch.”

Just then, Anne returned with cups and a pitcher of water. “Papa said he’ll bring blankets and pillows and will pull out the pallets for your beds in just a little while. Dinner is almost ready; I’ll go help Mama with the stew then bring it out to you once it’s done. I would invite you inside to eat, but I’m sure you don’t want to leave your friend.”

“You are correct,” Athos replied quickly and resolutely. “We’ll stay in here and eat so we can keep an eye on d’Artagnan, in case he awakens.”

“Very well,” Anne smiled. “I’ll bring the stew along when it’s done.”

Porthos pulled up a bench next to Athos’s stool and plopped down. “Sit,” he patted the space next to him, prompting Aramis to sit beside him. “Now we wait.”

*****

Anne and her mother brought in trays of food with fresh bread, cheese and three bowls of steaming bœuf à la Bourguignonne; while her father trailed behind them carrying a pile of blankets and pillows, which were then placed on pallets arranged side by side on the dirt floor.

Porthos greedily rubbed his hands together in anticipation, lifting his nose at the enticing aroma wafting through the air from the stew. “Mmm, ‘at smells good! I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse,” he patted his stomach in hunger.

“This isn’t horse, but it should fill you up,” Anne laughed. “Go on boys, eat up.”

Each of the men took a tray with a bowl of stew, bread and cheese and placed it on their laps. Tearing apart the bread, Aramis dipped it in the stew, “this looks divine,” he took a bite. He smiled at the nurse and merely nodded as his mouth was full of food.

“‘Dis good,” Porthos complimented, not caring if his mouth was full. He scooped another spoonful into his mouth and shook his head, “damn, ‘dis is good.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Anne’s mother smiled. “If you want seconds, we have plenty—so eat as much as you like.” The family left the men to eat their dinner as they returned to the inn. 

“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” Athos later thanked Anne when she returned to gather up the empty dishes.

“You are quite welcome, gentlemen,” Anne smiled. “I’ll leave you boys to get some sleep, but if you need anything, just come inside and let me know.”

“I don’t need nothin’ but a good night’s sleep,” Porthos patted his belly satisfactorily. “I feel like I ate a horse.”

Aramis and Athos rolled their eyes and huffed with amusement. “A good night’s sleep is just what the doctor ordered,” the medic nodded as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I’m exhausted,” he lay down on the makeshift bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

“I’ve slept in some trashy places,” Porthos yawned, “but this isn’t half bad.”

“Yes, this is more than acceptable,” Athos agreed. “Get some sleep; I’ll keep an eye on d’Artagnan for the first watch.”

“You wake me at the first sign of trouble or if he regains consciousness,” Aramis instructed. The medic narrowed his eyes when he studied Athos’s expressionless face. “I mean it, Athos, wake me up if you need me—or in three hours when it’s my turn to watch him.”

“Fine,” Athos waved his hand in agreement, “go to sleep.” The older Musketeer propped his feet up on the table, one leg crossed over the other, beside d’Artagnan and settled back against the wall. “This is going to be a long night,” he mumbled to himself as he looked down at his friends, softly snoring as they slept.

Three hours later, Aramis was sleeping so soundly Athos didn’t have the heart to wake him; he let the medic sleep as he continued his private vigil over the Gascon. As of yet, the young Musketeer hadn’t stirred so there was no purpose in waking Aramis when sleep was more beneficial to the medic. The older Musketeer determined he would sacrifice his own sleep so his brothers could rest—besides, he’s gone without sleep plenty of times before.

Sometime later, d’Artagnan finally stirred. He moaned as he licked his dry lips, “m-my head hurts,” he croaked. “Thirssty…”

Athos poured some water into a goblet then gently raised d’Artagnan’s head as he tipped the water carefully into his open mouth. “Not too much, I don’t want you to choke,” Athos pulled the cup away and set it down. 

“Head hurss,” d’Artagnan groaned as he lifted a hand to inspect the bandaged wound on his head.

“No, don’t touch,” Athos stopped the hand short. “You were shot—the ball just grazed your temple—but you’ve been unconscious for several hours.” 

“Wha’ happ’nd?” d’Artagnan slurred sleepily. Instantly his eyes popped open wide, “Aramis and Porth’s, are they alright? Are _you_ alright?”

Athos huffed with astonishment. _He’s the one who is wounded, yet his thoughts first turn to his brothers._ The older Musketeer smiled, “they’re fine; they’re sleeping soundly.”

“Good,” d’Artagnan whispered as he closed his eyes and let himself fall asleep.

“Sleep, little brother,” Athos tenderly stroked the Gascon’s forehead, moving strands of dark hair away from the white bandage. The older Musketeer suddenly had to grab the table for support as a wave of dizziness washed over him, leaving him feeling nauseous and queasy. He fell back onto the stool as his knees buckled beneath him.

“Damn,” he cursed. “What the hell…?” Athos leaned forward to rest his head on his folded arms as his stomach rolled nauseatingly. “I’ll just close my eyes for a minute. . . until the dizziness has passed.” The Musketeer closed his eyes and was soon sound asleep.

*****

The birds serenaded the bright morning sun as it shimmered through the windows of the tool building. “Shut up, damn you,” Porthos growled. “Bloody hell. . . think I’m gonna be sick,” he turned just as his stomach revolted against the dinner he ingested the night before. He vomited again and again until the large man could hardly breathe.

“Are you…” Aramis started but quickly turned aside as he violently vomited the contents of his stomach, retch after retch, until his muscles burned with intense pain. “God… oh, God,” he groaned in agony.

“What the hell is wrong. . .?” Porthos was interrupted by more retching, though nothing more was coming up but yellow bile. He spit and gasped for air, bracing himself as he felt his stomach roll, hinting another round of vomiting. 

Athos stirred at the table, lifting his head at the sound of vomiting around him. “What. . .?” the Musketeer felt his stomach rumble. Athos had only enough time to turn his head before last night’s dinner gushed from his body and splashed over the dirt floor. He fell from the stool to all fours as his stomach savagely twisted and heaved, forcing the remaining contents to hurl from his body with deliberate rebellion.

“‘Thos?” Aramis croaked but could say nothing more as his stomach dry-heaved painfully. Involuntary tears streamed from his eyes at the pain stabbing through his abdomen, “God, it hurts,” he cried. The medic turned on his side and curled into a tight ball, his fists grabbed at the blanket until it was a mangled mess.

Porthos retched again and grimaced as his stomach twisted in knots of agony, “‘Mis, make it stop,” the large man pleaded as he pounded the dirt floor with his fist. 

d’Artagnan awoke to the commotion and turned his head to see what was going on but from his elevated position on the table he could see nothing. “Guys, what’s going on?” Hearing nothing but groaning, the Gascon pushed himself to his elbows. He gasped at the sight before him as he took in Porthos retching and Aramis curled in a ball, rocking himself back-and-forth with his eyes clamped shut in pain.

“Porthos?” the younger Musketeer heaved himself to a sitting position. “‘Mis?” d’Artagnan paused to rest as his head swam and his vision darkened around the edges. “What’s wrong? Where’s Athos?”

“Hmfft,” Athos grunted from the floor behind the table. The older man retched and coughed as his stomach rebelled; his face flushed as streams of sweat slowly dripped to the floor. “God,” he gasped at his inability to breathe as the cursed retching continued. 

The Gascon lowered himself slowly from the table, his hand reached to steady himself until he was sure on his feet. He observed Athos on all fours with his head hung low to his chest as he gasped for air, a puddle of vomit pooled in front of him. d’Artagnan turned back to watch his other two friends behaving in the same manner and had to choke back the sob constricting his throat. “What happened to you guys?”

“Think… think it was somethin’ we ate,” Porthos groaned. “Has to be ‘at, we were fine until…”

“… until we ate dinner,” Athos finished for his friend. His chest heaved as his breaths came in heavy, labored pants.

d’Artagnan looked at the neatly aligned arrangement of pallets on the floor and shook his head, “this won’t work.” Slowly, the young Musketeer made his way to the empty pallet and pulled it from beside Porthos until it was situated—lying perpendicular—at the head of the two pallets holding his friends. “I can keep an eye on all three of you easier if I’m in the middle of you,” d’Artagnan panted from exertion. 

The Gascon’s head swam and he felt dizzy, but right now his brothers needed him. He squared his shoulders and pushed aside his own nausea as he rose to walk where Athos was still hunched over behind the table. The older Musketeer dry heaved as he held himself upright on one arm with the other clenched tightly around his middle. “Let’s get you over to your pallet so I can keep an eye on all of you at the same time,” d’Artagnan prompted as he pulled Athos upright.

Slowly, the pair made their way to the arranged group of pallets where d’Artagnan lowered Athos to the bed then covered him with a blanket. “Try to get some sleep, if you are able. I’ll get some water for you each to drink—I can’t let you get dehydrated.” 

The Gascon fetched the pitcher then placed a cup of water beside each pallet. He soaked a rag to swab the cool cloth over the heated foreheads of his friends, starting with Porthos. “Dammit, feels like you’re running a fever,” he dipped the cloth and wrung out the excess water with a frown. “I’m going to need more water and more cloths.”

As if on cue, Anne’s father entered the room looking haggard and worn. “I was hoping these boys wouldn’t be sick but this certainly confirms my suspicions,” he shook his head shamefully. “Everyone who ate the bœuf à la Bourguignonne has come down sick, including my wife and daughter. Those who ate either the sausage or the chicken are fine; but those who ate the beef are sick.” 

“Never thought I’d be so relieved to have been unconscious and unable to eat,” d’Artagnan muttered to himself. He instantly regretted his words as he saw the man flinch. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that,” he sighed.

“Anne is too sick to get out of bed but she recommended I bring you boys some chamomile tea with crushed fennel seed to help ease the pain and soothe your upset stomachs. It helps alleviate the nausea too, so she tells me.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan nodded with appreciation. “Could I also get another pitcher of water and some cloths to cool their foreheads?”

“Yes, I’ll go get the supplies and the tea and I’ll be right back.”

d’Artagnan wet the cloth again and moved to Aramis who was shivering with chills, though his face glistened with sweat. “Aw, ‘Mis, I wish I knew how to make you better or even trade places with you.”

“N-no, you d-don’t w-want to t-t-trade places with m-me,” Aramis stammered through the shivers. “God, it h-hurts,” he tightly squeezed his fists on the blanket until his knuckles turned white.

“I have some tea coming that should help ease the pain,” d’Artagnan’s eyes misted with tears. “Just hang on a little longer for me,” he soothed as he wiped the cold cloth over the medic’s fevered skin.

Athos’s noisy breaths came in loud wheezes and attracted the attention of the medic, despite his own illness. “You should pr-prop his h-head up higher,” Aramis suggested. “Here, give him m-my pillow.”

“I don’t need… your damn pillow,” Athos growled. He quickly turned his body as he retched again, though nothing was coming up—not even bile. “God…” he gasped for breath.

d’Artagnan turned around to rub circles over the back of his mentor, gently pounding while whispering quietly in Athos’s ear words of encouragement. “You’re going to be alright… just get it all out. . . catch your breath,” he soothed.

The Gascon looked around for something to elevate Athos’s upper body with. His eyes lit up as he spotted their blue cloaks neatly draped over a table in the corner, “be right back,” he patted his mentor’s shoulder. 

As d’Artagnan retrieved the cloaks, Anne’s father returned with the tea, water and some cloths. “The chamomile and fennel tea is really working well with the girls,” he smiled and nodded. “Have them sip slowly on the tea—though some will probably come back up at first—but it will soon settle their stomachs and they should begin feeling better. Please, allow me to help you; I can see you have your hands full with these sick boys all by yourself.”

“Aw, I don’t mind,” d’Artagnan smiled as he draped a cool cloth over Athos’s forehead. “They took care of me when I was hurt; now it’s my turn to take care of them. That’s what brothers do for each other. All for one…” his voice cracked.

“What did you say?” the father asked. The man lifted a cup of chamomile tea to Porthos’s lips and then gently rubbed a cold cloth over his fevered face. He smiled as he pushed back the sweaty, dark curls from the Musketeer’s face.

“All for one, and one for all,” d’Artagnan paused. “It’s our motto… well, it’s more than that, really. It’s our creed; it’s what we work and live by as Musketeers. Everything we do is for each other. We are brothers; it’s who we are. To me, being a Musketeer isn’t necessarily about serving King and Country; it’s about serving _with_ the brother standing next to me. It’s about making sure my brothers stay alive every day. It’s about supporting them and backing them, even when they are too stubborn to admit when they need help,” the Gascon smiled tenderly at the three men lying near him. “It’s about brotherhood—they’re the only family I have left. I would do anything for them. I would fight _for_ them; I would fight _with_ them; I would nurse them back to health. I would take a ball for them; I would die for them. I would die for my brothers.”

“Nobody’s dyin’ for nobody,” Porthos gazed at his younger brother as he blinked back the tears in his eyes. “We’re _all_ makin’ it out of here alive. All of us.”

“That’s right,” croaked Aramis wearily. The medic’s brown eyes bore into d’Artagnan with affection as the stinging tears blurred his vision. He determined in his heart to survive this ailment after hearing the mantra of his younger brother, “we’re going to make it—all of us. It might take some longer than others to recover,” he watched Athos and frowned. “But as brothers, we leave no man behind.”

“‘Preciate th’ c’ncern,” Athos slurred, “don’t plan to lag behind. ‘Mm fine,” the stubborn Musketeer mumbled as his sleepy eyes drooped heavily.

“Yeah, sure you are,” d’Artagnan smiled, absently stroking his fingers through his mentor’s hair. “Stubborn big brother,” he grasped Athos’s hand and squeezed gently.

Athos smiled faintly as tears leaked from his closed eyes. “All for one…” he whispered.

“…and one for all,” the others echoed softly.

finis

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entry for a new competition by ArcAngel-liberty4all with the prompt "Brotherhood."  
> I did leave the ending open-ended so I can continue with a part two, perhaps after the competition is over. Hope you all Enjoy!


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